Tongues are a special anatomical invention
venting and will-work-wagging with varying convention.
Cute, creep-crawl creatures slurp slick-soft slugs and shoot
sticky, slop-mass-mounds of evolved flesh: pounce, reboot,
repeat, then lick. Look, the sublingual solitude
of a berry sized seed buried and
booed
for being so bothersome to the lingual
advantages
of being rational and speaking several languages;
bilingual; slow, but with strong accents and sloppy bursts
of, oh yes, ‘yeast-yawn’ palatals, well rehearsed
but, well, with sub-par pronunciation. The tongue’s
highest use, I think then, is as throne: the Son’s
place of respite leaving one tongue-tied with Majesty.
No wonder it’s so wonderful but wandering south can be a travesty,
just west of wicked minded inclination,
puffed and gassy, it is “Glossitis,” the glossy, grassy nation
where sometimes tongues don’t work so well and messy faces
and fingers result and things are said that spoil spaces.
A beloved creature, the tongue is drawing immense
pleasure in the eyes and heart of Coherence,
a beaming and affectionate Countenance,
the fruit of his satisfaction and love for tongue parlance,
of which his Son took one when he became Man,
learning to lip with lap, love and chat with twelve chosen kinsmen.
Gary Edward Geraci